Draconian Measures

by Chris Lowry

  "Please," I said and swallowed the rest of the Southern Pecan craft beer down with a satisfied grunt. It wasn't ambrosia but smacked pretty good of being a powerful social lubricant.

  She popped the top on a bottle and swiped it in place of the empty in front of me. I appreciated the artistry.

  There was a mirror that ran the length of the bar and I faced it full on so I could watch the door.

  I didn't look that bad tonight.

  Not for a ninety-five-year-old man.

  I didn't look it though. That's a perk of being a wizard, the slow aging process. I was born in 1921 and looked forty. I'd look forty for the next three or four hundred years, and then age slowly over the next hundred or so more.

  If I lasted that long.

  Most Marshall's didn't.

  I'd had the job for two decades which made me practically an old timer in the ranks.

  I looked old in the eyes, I thought.

  But after what I'd seen in the Sidhe Wars, which you called World War II, and the Fairy incursions, on top of the hunting of Warlocks and Sorcerers and Sorceresses which were what we called Wizards gone to the dark side, I wasn't surprised.

  She was definitely late.

  I had arrived early.

  Like I said, nervous.

  Eyes up at the clock again. Fifteen minutes late.

  "Damn it." I sipped the beer, and pondered why being stood up bothered us as a people so much.

  Nobody liked rejection, but it's not like I knew the woman who was a no show. The cold heartless woman who probably hated dogs.

  The door opened and my heart fluttered.

  A young sweating black guy flitted in. He pulled the door shut after him and glanced around the room.

  I knew that look, so I glanced around the room too.

  He scowled.

  I guess the person or persons he was supposed to meet wasn't there either. Or maybe he was stood up too.

  He walked toward the back and caught me staring in the mirror, giving him some serious eyeball.

  "Who the hell are you?"

  I turned around and set my back to the bar. Sure the mirror was great for watching the comings and the goings, but nothing beats a good old fashioned face to face when you do this.

  I slipped open the side of my leather coat to reveal my badge.

  "Marshal?" he squeaked and blanched.

  Totally worth it. Every time.

  I did the eye thing up and down, trying to track details. I wasn't too worried about him. He didn't give off that low level vibration users of magic can feel off of each other, and my precog always gave me about two seconds of a head start on anything.

  "Nice grimoire," I said.

  He glanced down at the book, then started to shove it in a backpack over one shoulder.

  I let my hand ease down to the edge of my belt.

  "You don't look like a practitioner."

  The Judge said a couple of us Marshal's watched too many Westerns growing up, that we had this sense of spell casting like gun slinging.

  But I was the Marshal of the East. If you think I was bad you should see the guy from the West.

  The young man in front of me licked his lips.

  "I- um-"

  Um is the universal signal. It lets the person you're talking to know that you are now about to lie your ass off, and that your mouth was engaged before your brain started.

  "I'm meeting someone it belongs to," said the man.

  Nice recovery.

  "What's your name?"

  I used the squinty eye thing a lot of people know from Clint. Clint rocks by the way.

  "Tyrone," he answered.

  "Tyrone," I rolled it around my tongue. "You're playing with forces that are beyond your ken."

  He nodded and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.

  "Don't I know it."

  "Why don't you just leave that with me," I suggested and patted the bar.

  He looked like he wanted to.

  "I would, sir," he said.

  Sir? Do I look like a sir? Or was it just a respect thing?

  "But I can't," he finished.

  I nodded.

  Didn't have to talk.

  Just squinted.

  I let my eyes say it all.

  Feeling lucky?

  The door opened and she walked in.

  My heart did that flutter thing again as I saw her.

  Auburn hair to just her shoulders, athletic, pretty face framed behind sensible glasses and a fashionable business suit. She looked frazzled, like a person who had been delayed by circumstances beyond their control. A little crease was on her brow as she glanced around the room and her eyes settled on me.

  She smiled.

  I'm a sucker for a gorgeous smile. There's just something contagious about them.

  I smiled back.

  Tyrone smiled too.

  Damn it Tyrone, I can't be tough and sweet at the same time.

  I motioned him to move along with my head.

  That grimoire might not have been his, and I didn't know the whole story but Tyrone had dealt with the law before, that much I was sure.

  He nodded again and skedaddled to a table in the back. Fast.

  She moved across the room and slid up on a barstool beside me.

  Smiled again as I spun around.

  "Sorry I'm late, but parking was a bitch."

  She waved a finger to the bartender and asked for a martini.

  "Was it my idea to meet down here on a game night?" she asked.

  She knew whose idea it was.

  Too bad my luck didn't extend to zingers.

  Want to read the rest of the adventures of the Marshal of Magic?

  Grab your copy of Witchmas today.

  OTHER WORKS by CHRIS LOWRY

  Conscripted

  Mission One

  FLASH BANG

  Shadowboxer

  Decreed

  Credible Threat

  Moon Men

  Super Secret Space Mission

  Holy War

  Nazi Nukes

  Time Out

  Jack’s Wild

  Have you joined the adventure?

  Battlefield Z

  Battlefield Z – Children’s Brigade

  Battlefield Z – Sweet Home Zombie

  Battlefield Z – Zombie Blues Highway

  Battlefield Z – Mardi Gras Zombie

  Battlefield Z – Bluegrass Zombie

  Battlefield Z – Outcast (June 2017)

  More adventures in the series

  FLYOVER ZOMBIE – a Battlefield Z series

  HEADSHOTS – a Battlefield Z series

  OVERLAND ZOMBIE – a Battlefield Z series (June 2017)